


Erudition Part 1

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [4]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen's been away for three months, and Carver thinks he'll go mad with wanting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erudition Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much just porn. It's been a rough week.

     Three.  Months.

     Three _sodding_ months Cullen had been away, off on a diplomatic mission with the Viscount, something about helping Antiva start up a new Circle and Templar garrison given that the closest one had literally collapsed after its mages unleashed a dozen earthquake spells and _it didn't matter_ because Cullen had been away forever and Carver thought he might go mad in the interim.

     It wasn't the sex, or lack thereof.  Well, maybe it was a little bit about the sex, but there was more to his frustration than that.  Carver was no stranger to his own hand, and he supposed that worked to take the edge off, but when he was done and the kerchief rinsed he felt the same:  tense, a little angry, unsatisfied, alone.  He'd tried sparring as an alternative, but that was worse.  Few of the other Templars could give him a workout the way Cullen could, and the ones who could didn't have the right attitude about it.  He _missed_ Cullen's delight in the match as they went at each other -- the way he would bounce a little on the balls of his feet in anticipation of Carver's next strike, or the way he would merely laugh whenever Carver put him on his back.  And his prissy way of talking shit:  _Was that a parry?  I could hardly tell, it seemed ethereal as the Fade itself_ or _Dear me, that almost hurt, perhaps I should try to stay awake_.  Carver could run Cullen all over the field and knock him down a hundred times, but he had never yet _beaten_ Cullen.  And he never would, because... Cullen.

     But Cullen was away, and Andraste's _arse_ it wore on him, working day in and day out with no Cullen to go home to at the end of it all.  A week in and he'd been exhausted from the sheer effort of biting back a dozen cutting retorts and a half-dozen mortal insults, none of which their potential targets really deserved.  Three weeks and the junior knights had taken to scuttling out of his way as he stalked down the corridors; he suspected the recruits were all in hiding.  Six weeks and one of the older knights had casually mentioned that they were all headed to the Rose and perhaps Carver would like to join them?  And Carver had made an Andrastean effort and _not_ gutted the man where he stood.  He was rather proud of himself for that, but apparently the look on his face had been forbidding enough that the knight went pale and immediately took his leave.

     And on one snowy, sleet-flecked evening after Carver had gone off duty and retreated to his quarters, as he looked at the lowering sky and knew it for a brewing blizzard, he sighed and closed the shutters and curtains and then flung himself on the bed.  _Not_ to sulk, as no doubt Garrett or Bethany would have chided him -- even though Cullen had been due back from Antiva and the blizzard meant that he would certainly not arrive tonight, nor anytime in the next few days.  No one traveled in weather like this. 

     He was Knight Captain now; he did not sulk.  He _brooded_.  That was different.

     But the scent that rose from the bed as Carver flopped onto it immediately slapped him out of brooding and into aching, because even with fresh sheets and weeks without, the feathers in the mattress still smelled of Cullen.  Carver groaned and rolled onto his belly, pressing his face into that faint whiff.  Yes, it was there, barely:  sweat and plain lye soap, the hot metal of armor, a hint of prayer-incense, and the spice of the cologne that Cullen occasionally wore to state events, all curling together into that indefinable melange which immediately made Carver imagine pressing his face to the back of Cullen's neck.  He could almost hear Cullen's low laugh, feel the velvet stroke of his voice when he murmured things like, _Ah, now what would you have of me, Ser Carver?_   He often used the "Ser" when they were in private; he knew Carver liked being reminded of the knighthood that he'd worked so hard and sacrificed so much to earn.  But the question was rhetorical, because Cullen always knew the answer even as he asked it:  what Carver wanted to have was _Cullen_. 

     Or to be had by him.  Maker, but that last night had been exquisite, just before the Antiva trip.  Cullen had been on Carver for what felt like hours, fingers stroking gentleness into Carver's hips while his cock rode over Carver's sweet spot as relentlessly as an Exalted March, until Carver was shaking and begging Cullen to just let him fucking _come_ before he lost his mind.  And all the while he had whispered in Carver's ear -- nothing dirty, because that was not Cullen's way, but magnificent things nevertheless.  Hungry things.  Perfect things like, _I cannot let you go, my knight; I have not had enough; I must have something to take with me while I am so far away; I would have your voice as my keepsake,_ and Carver had given it to him because Cullen's wish was his command.  Again and again he had cried his pleasure until Cullen was satisfied, until his throat was raw and his mind was gone and the next day he'd been hoarse and sore and exhausted and distracted, and he had not minded _at all_.

     Damnation.  Groaning, Carver rolled onto his back and flung an arm over his eyes in frustration, because all at once the press of the mattress was a torment.  He didn't want his hand.  It wouldn't help when he wanted _Cullen_ , not just his hands but his voice and his mouth and more than a breath of his scent.  He had _always_ wanted Cullen, practically since he'd first come to the Gallows as a recruit -- but back then, with Garrett's contempt fresh in his mind and a hundred muttered lashes of _filthy dog-lord_ raw on his soul, he hadn't had the courage to act on his wanting, or even to think about it.  The whole thing had just seemed so hopeless.  What would a man so strong and upstanding, a Fereldan who hadn't needed noble blood or a managing brother to make good, want with someone like _Carver_?  Back then, he'd barely been able to get a sentence out of his mouth without shoving his boot-clad foot in to replace it.

     So Carver had put his head down and done his duty, in the half-hearted hope of living up to the legacy that his father had bestowed on him with Maurevar Carver's name.  (Or at least earning enough coin so that he no longer had to depend on his brother's whims to get by.)  He'd concealed his real skill for fear of earning his fellow Templars' jealousy.  He'd tried not to show too much kindness to the Gallows' mages even though it hurt to see what they endured on Meredith's watch.  And he'd reminded himself daily that he could do them no good at all, not even the small favors that were within his power, if he ended up getting thrown out on his ear. 

     And if, in the dark nights while he wondered if he'd made the right choice, he'd imagined a particular voice as he stroked himself -- or a particular body pressing against his when he went to the Rose and bent for Adriano -- well.  Carver had spent his whole life wanting things he couldn't have.

     And now he lay on the bed that he shared with Cullen, in a suite for the Gallows' highest officers that he'd _earned_ along with Cullen's respect, living the life he had built with Cullen.  It was more than his younger self could even have wished for.  And really, he was happy with that; he was lucky and he knew it.  But that didn't mean he couldn't hate the fact that Cullen wasn't here, now, filling the room with his endlessly soothing presence, stepping around the bedposts with that little smile on his lips.  The smile that was so gentlemanly and peaceable and yet utterly assured in its intentions -- said intentions being _to have Carver in every way imaginable_ \--

     "Oh, bloody Void," Carver groaned, and frantically reached down to yank at the laces of his trousers.  He was hard as the metal of the Twins, so hard that it hurt to grip himself; he ground his teeth in frustration but had no choice other than to stroke lightly, a caress and not the quick grinding release he craved --

     -- ah, but Cullen was light-handed like this, not to torment but just because he seemed to like the feel of Carver's skin and the hardness underneath --

     Carver shuddered to a stop, already panting a little.  Shit.  Now he had Cullen on the brain, and his whole body rang with want for something more than just a quick stroke-off.

     Well, if he was going to do this, then he'd _do_ it.  Kicking off his boots and pants, Carver sat up to yank off his shirt, tossing everything across the floor in a way that would have had Cullen _tsk_ -ing if he'd been present.  "I'll pick 'em up later," he murmured without thinking, and then laughed to himself as the empty room echoed the words.  Crazy, he was crazy, this was crazy -- but that thought did not stop him from rummaging through the end table drawer and yanking out the bottle of oil.  He was still laughing, his hands shaking a little _(Cullen's hands)_ as he sat back against the headboard and pillows and fumbled probably half the bottle all over himself.  It was going to stain the sheets something awful.  But when he took himself in hand again, deliberately gentle, letting the oil guide and glide his stroke, the pleasure of it was such a sharp shock that he had to stop and take a breath.  Otherwise he would've lost control and just yanked at himself like a brute until he spilled -- something Cullen would never have done.

     In fact, Cullen would have chided him:  _It makes no sense to guzzle a fine wine, my knight.  Some pleasures of life are simply meant to be savored_...

     Carver hissed through his teeth and shut his eyes; just imagining Cullen's voice had made his balls draw up tight.  Massaging them loose again with one hand, he tried to concentrate on his breathing while his other hand worked a slow circling dance on his cock.  No, not slow, that wasn't right.  Steady.  He modulated his strokes, keeping them light like Cullen's fingers, occasionally cupping the head in his palm.  Ah, that felt just like Cullen too; he loved to kiss Carver there, and his lips were shaped perfectly for it.  Sometimes he would part his lips just enough to flicker with his tongue...  Carver flicked a fingertip and gasped with the memory.  And Cullen would look up, amused by Carver's writhing as he finally opened his mouth to suckle so tenderly... and then he would lick free, and smile with those lips as he pushed deep into Carver, inch after sweet thick inch --

     "Nngh... fuck..." Carver whispered, and scooted up into the pillows so he could draw up his knees and curl his body.  He fumbled below his balls with an oil-sopped hand, aching to feel _something_ there, but it felt nothing like Cullen.  He could get two fingers in, but not very deep, and he couldn't manage the leverage to imitate the feel of Cullen taking him.  His cock throbbed, a torment, but it wasn't _enough_ \--  "Nnh, Maker, Cullen, please -- "

     "Please what?"

     The voice -- the _real_ voice, not his imagining -- startled Carver out of the haze of frustration.  He jerked in surprise, kicking against the bedcovers and half-reaching for a sword that wasn't there.  But _Cullen_ was, standing just inside the room with his helmet under one arm, his armor dusty and flecked with melting sleet, and a far-too-innocent curve to his lips.  Carver stared at him, blinking and wondering if he'd gone so far as to hallucinate.  " _Cullen?_   Wh - what in the Void -- "

     Cullen shook his head and set his helmet on a nearby dresser.  "The ship managed to reach the Wounded Coast before the wind got dangerous, and we marched hard overland to get here ahead of the storm.  But we can discuss the vagaries of winter travel later."  He tugged off each of his gauntlets, then began removing his armor piece by deliberate piece -- but his eyes never left Carver, even when he shifted to set the armor segments on a nearby chair.  "Far be it from me that I should interrupt you.  Pray continue."

     "I -- "  Carver blushed and faltered silent, all his nerves alight from shock and -- Maker, _that look_ on Cullen's face.  He wasn't just watching Carver; there was something intent and fierce in his gaze, all hunger and storm, like he'd brought the blizzard with him.  But this storm was contained, of course, because Cullen.  Cullen here, here at last, with him. 

     Carver's cock twitched and he put a hand on it reflexively.  Maker, he _hurt_ with wanting.  "I, I can't," he stammered, face afire.  "Continue, I mean.  I... I tried, but..."

     "Were you imagining me?"

     Oh Andraste at the stake.  "I... yes."  His hand twitched; he bit his bottom lip.

     "I see."  The last piece of armor clanked as Cullen set it on the chair.  He'd loosened his boots while undoing the shin-guards; now he toed them off.  "And have you done this often, while I was gone?"  He inclined his head significantly toward the nightstand, and the open bottle of oil there.

     "Uh, I have," Carver said, blushing a little and looking away -- but even as he did, his hand jerked and he stroked himself once.  He could not quite help it.  And the flash of pleasure that shivered through him -- _Cullen was watching him touch himself_ \-- made Carver's blood sing in a whole new way.  "Uh, tried not to.  It's... not the same.  Not..."  He licked his lips, hoping that the hint would be sufficient because Cullen was _here_ and he didn't want his _hands_. "...enough."

     The shirt that had been underneath Cullen's gambeson was damp with sweat and melted sleet; he stripped it off in a smooth movement that left Carver breathless.  Then he unlaced his trousers.  _Slowly_.  Carver was going to _die_.

     Cullen smiled at Carver's expression as he stepped out of the trousers.  Then he leaned against the bedpost, as relaxed as if he watched men masturbate all the time -- oh, but his cock was swollen and purpled and as lovely as Carver's best dreams, hanging off to one side as it did when Cullen was really hard, and _why wasn't he climbing into the sodding bed already_?

     "You want tending, I think." Cullen said, very softly, and Carver made a little sound that was _not_ a whimper.

     "Fucking _yes_ I want tending!"

     Cullen's lips twitched.  " _Language_ , Ser Carver.  Honestly."  He began to climb onto the bed, and -- shit, was he _crawling toward_ Carver?  Then Cullen's hands landed on Carver's upraised knees and everything in him froze, half terrified and half thrilled.  He could only sit there, dick in hand, trying not to spend just from the look on Cullen's face.  "Have I not impressed upon you the value of patience?  Self-control?"

     Carver hissed and opened his legs in a blatant plea, grinding his head back into the pillows to vent his frustration.  "Cullen, demons take you, do you have any idea how much I _oh sweet blighted shitting Void_ \-- "  And then he lost the ability to speak, because Cullen had abruptly hooked his arms under Carver's knees and in one smooth movement bent Carver almost double into the pillows, simultaneously shoving his cock up to the hilt into Carver's ass.

     They both went still then, trembling, and as Carver's mind slowly unlocked he became aware that Cullen was almost as close to the brink as he was.  Cullen's face had constricted, eyes shut tight, and after a long moment he let out the breath he'd been holding.  "Maker's _Mercy_ , Carver..."

     He was so hard inside Carver, so _good_ to feel there, so hot and deep and... everything.  "B-been missing me?"

     "More than you can possibly imagine. I have dreamt of you, and woken half mad with it, for weeks now. And to come home and find you..."  Swallowing hard, Cullen opened his eyes.  Maker, but they were dark, and a little wild.  "Carver, I... I am afraid that... all my talk of self-control was a sham."

     Carver laughed a little hysterically.  "Cullen, please stop.  Fucking.   _Talking_."  And he tightened his legs around Cullen and used the leverage to grind his hips up, groaning as this pulled Cullen's cock deeper.

     With a feverish groan Cullen gripped his hips, and the world went away for awhile -- or perhaps it just shrank, becoming nothing but this room, this bed, Cullen above him panting harshly, Cullen inside him as he _pounded_ into Carver like he was laying fencepost.  Usually Cullen was gentler, slower, considerate; clearly he was in no mood for that now.  When Carver tried to stroke himself Cullen made a sound like a snarl and yanked his hand away and pinned it amid the pillows; when Carver's whimpers turned to broken-voiced cries he did not pause, per his usual practice, to make certain Carver was all right; when Carver kept raising his hips to meet Cullen, Cullen matched him stroke for stroke.

     There was no hope of it lasting long, not with both of them in such a crazed state.  Afterward -- when his mind had recovered enough for thought -- Carver suspected that Cullen held on out of sheer bloodymindedness; he always liked it when Carver came first.  But even as Carver shook and shouted and clawed at the sheets with his free hand and lost himself in the pounding pulsing ringing exclamation of his own delight, he was distantly aware of Cullen crying _Maker, sweet Maker, oh demons, oh Carver, oh --_  and then dissolving into a wordless hoarse scream.  And as Carver came out of his own fugue, Cullen was still twitching like a man in a fit, his hips bucking, head lolled back, cock throbbing so powerfully that Carver thought he could actually feel him coming. 

     And then Cullen collapsed onto him, all boneless deadweight and helpless after-shudders, his forehead running with sweat where it lay on Carver's sternum.  Carver laughed weakly and wrapped arms and legs around him, and held him, and decided that this was probably the most wonderful feeling in the world.

     "Welcome home," he whispered into Cullen's damp hair, and Cullen panted out a laugh.

     They slept then, messy and wrung out and warm.

#

     The blizzard lasted three days, which forced everyone indoors to huddle around braziers and hearths.  There were storytelling contests and epic card games.  There were the usual incidents as bored apprentices played pranks and bored junior knights got into fights.  Carver rolled his eyes at all of it, and when the sun finally returned he sentenced the culprits to munitions duty, preparing snowballs for the other mages and Templars during the subsequent courtyard games. 

     He was glad for the return of good weather, because it put everyone in a better mood.  The mages had fewer nightmares for awhile; somehow even the demons knew it was a bad time to try their wiles in the Fade.  He also noticed that the recruits had stopped hiding, which he supposed was a positive development, however puzzling it was that they'd avoided him in the first place.  And the junior knights seemed far less skittish when Carver came near. Doubtless they were all just glad to have their Knight Commander back in place.

     As was Carver.  And though he tried not to show it too obviously, he caught himself whistling now and again as he patrolled the grounds.  The older knights grinned knowingly as he passed, and the senior mages kept giving him indulgent, fond looks, both of which annoyed him mightily.

     But it was hard to stay annoyed when duty was done and he returned to the suite where Cullen usually sat working at his letters desk.  Carver would rack his armor and sit down nearby to read while Cullen worked, and when Cullen had finished and sat back to stretch Carver would go to him, and massage his shoulders for a moment, and lean down to press his face into the back of Cullen's neck.

     And Cullen would laugh softly and say, "What would you have of me, then, Ser Carver?"  As if he didn't already know.

     Whereupon Carver promptly led him to bed, to remind himself of how lucky he was, and to savor anew all the pleasures of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, I'm running out of canticles.


End file.
